Chapter 11 Axl
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AXL
“Glad you approve,” I say, stepping out of my study with Ciar right behind me. My voice is soft, but it cuts through the tension like a scalpel. “Do try not to bleed on the marble. It’s Italian. Stains like a bastard.”
Her gaze snaps to me, the fury reigniting.
“Now that we’re all here, tell us how your meeting with Annastasia went.”
She meets my gaze with a defiant tilt of her chin, a flicker of something unreadable in those ice-blue depths. “The deal’s off,” she says, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. “She wasn’t happy, but she understands the hierarchy.”
Liar.
The word forms in my mind, a perfect, satisfying little jewel. The lie is a good one. Delivered with just the right amount of resentment to be believable. She’s a natural.
Ciar grunts. I’m not sure if he believes her or not.
Usually, he sees the world in terms of challenges and submissions, but with her, it’s different.
Cillian, as usual, says nothing. He just watches her, his expression a mask of stone.
But I see the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze lingers on her wrist where his fingers were moments ago. He doesn’t buy it either.
“Excellent,” I say, my smile not reaching my eyes. “I’m so glad we’ve come to an understanding. Are you ready to win your first fight?”
“I won my first fight last night,” she points out.
“He means your first fight working for us,” Ciar says.
“Sure,” she says with a shrug. “I was gunning for O’Malley until my shadow here took care of it for me.”
“O’Malley?” Ciar growls, stepping forward. “What did he want?”
“He wanted to team up to take you down,” she says, her tone dripping with disdain. “Apparently, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
I watch her, fascinated. She feeds Ciar’s possessive rage with calculated precision, knowing it distracts from the lie still hanging in the air. She’s not just a brawler; she’s playing the game.
“Did he hurt you?” I ask steadily, but inside, my blood is boiling. How dare that little fucker try to turn her against us?
She scoffs, a sound like tearing silk. “He didn’t get the chance.” Her eyes flick to Cillian. “My bodyguard interrupted before I could break his fingers.”
Ciar moves closer, reaching out to run the backs of his fingers down her cheek. She flinches but catches herself, lifting her chin up. “He won’t get another chance. Cillian, find him. Bring him to the crypt. Our girl will get her fight.”
Cillian gives a short, sharp nod, his gaze lingering on Sorcha for a fraction of a second too long before he turns and slips out the front door, the heavy oak closing with a soft, final click behind him.
“I am not your girl,” Sorcha says, her tension easing now that Cillian isn’t looming over her.
He doesn’t appreciate defiance, not even the delicious kind she serves up. “You are what I say you are,” he bites out, his possessiveness a thick, suffocating blanket in the air.
“Regardless, you will get your fight,” I point out.
With a barely perceptible clenching of her jaw, she gives a stiff nod. She understands. For now, she plays by our rules. “Good girl,” I murmur, watching her reaction to the praise.
Her eyes flash, but I see everything she tries to hide.
She likes it. She might even crave it. From all I’ve learned, it appears she dragged herself up with nothing handed to her.
That makes her desperate to gain what she never had, but on her own terms. I can work with that.
The more I engage with her, the more layers I peel back.
Ciar, his patience clearly evaporated, glares down at her. “Move.”
“Is there a reason you are so rude?” she asks.
“Because he’s an arsehole?” I say, shooting her a smile that disarms her.
She blinks, her lips twitching to smile back, but she won’t dare.
She doesn’t want to find common ground. She wants to hate us.
That’s fine. It will make the sex even hotter if she does.
My cock stiffens as I think of her nails raking down my back as I ride her sweet pussy until she comes all over me.
It’s an erotic thought and one that twists my insides a bit.
But it makes me realise I don’t want her to hate us.
I want her to be one of us. Ciar is pushing her to see when she will break, and while I was on board with that plan, the more I get to know her, the more I see that she is already broken behind that tough girl exterior.
She uses it as a front, so those broken pieces don’t shatter anymore.
Ciar misses it. He sees defiance and shoves back with brute force.
He doesn’t see the hairline cracks in her armour.
Pushing her will only make her retreat further behind that wall of beautiful, pointless rage.
Or maybe he does see it, and instead of wanting to protect her, he wants to bring out that broken girl so he can build her back up.
Who knows with him? He probably doesn’t even know himself.
“Let’s go,” I say and stalk past her to open the front door.
She turns. “What? That’s it? Straight to the crypt? No dinner first?”
It’s just words. She is already striding past me with Ciar on her heels. He glares at me behind her back.
I get his meaning wholeheartedly. Sean O’Malley signed his death warrant when he touched what belongs to us.
Closing the door, I follow the two of them, increasing my pace to keep up with Ciar’s longer strides.
Sorcha is practically running. I slip my hand into hers, shocking her, as I slow her down, forcing Ciar to slow down or leave us behind.
It’s interesting. Usually, he wouldn’t give a flying fuck if we were behind him or not.
Sorcha tries to pull her hand out of mine, but I lace our fingers together.
Her hand is small in mine, but strong. She goes rigid, unsure what to do with such a gentle action, but she stops trying to pull away.
A small victory, and another layer peeled back.
Intimacy is not a thing for her. She has probably never had it.
Her hand tightens in mine, surprising me.
It’s not a grip of aggression, but something else.
An anchor in the storm we’re dragging her into.
I squeeze back gently, a silent acknowledgement.
Ahead of us, Ciar’s shoulders are a rigid line. He hasn’t looked back, but his pace is now a match for ours. He’s leashing himself for her. The three of us, the unshakable foundation of the Cerberus Order, are being subtly reshaped by this one, defiant girl in a matter of hours. It’s unnerving.
The mist thickens as we approach the lake, swallowing the sound of our footsteps until all I can hear is the soft rustle of our clothes and the distant lap of water against the shore.
The air is cold, biting at any exposed skin.
The crypt looms out of the darkness, a squat, stone beast waiting to be fed.
I release her hand as we reach the iron-banded door, a small, private moment of possession over.
For now. Her fingers are cold as they slip away from mine.
Ciar yanks the door open without ceremony, revealing the steep stone steps plunging into the earth below.
The familiar scent of damp stone and blood rises to meet us.
Cillian joins us, dragging a gagged O’Malley with him. He is putting up a fight that Cillian is getting pissed off with. With a low grunt, he shoves O’Malley down the steps into the lower crypt to the baying of the hounds below.
“Go,” Ciar says, giving Sorcha a gentle shove.
She doesn’t hesitate. With a final, withering glare aimed at him, she squares her shoulders and descends into the darkness.
The roar of the crowd below washes over us, a hungry, savage sound.
They smell blood in the water. I follow her, enjoying the view of her arse in those tight cargo pants, the sway of her hips a promise of the chaos she brings.
The lower crypt is packed, the air thick with sweat and anticipation. O’Malley is scrambling to his feet in the centre of the makeshift ring. He looks at Sorcha, then at us as we take our place at the edge of the ring. He rips the gag out and spits on the floor at Sorcha’s feet.
I exchange a glance with Ciar, a silent message passing between us. He nods grimly, and I grin. We are about to shake things up here.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I say loud enough for the crowd to hear me and settle down. “Tonight, you bear witness to a new way. Place your bets on who you think will be left standing. Welcome to the Cerberus Order’s first fight to the death.”